


don’t you dare forget about the sun

by jugandbettsdetectiveagency



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Azkaban, Gen, I don’t know where this came from but alas, Marauders, here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 21:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugandbettsdetectiveagency/pseuds/jugandbettsdetectiveagency
Summary: Would it have been worth it, to take the road laid out for him by generations of the family Black? There’s a chance he wouldn’t be in Azkaban right now. There’s a chance he would.Never running, never hiding. Never feeling the bone-deep pain, the barbed grief, the chasmic aching of losing everyone you ever loved. To know they’d be safe as long as you stayed on the wrong side of good.
Relationships: Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	don’t you dare forget about the sun

Depressingly, he could be back inside his childhood home.

You know, if he didn’t think too hard; if he squinted just enough—if he let the mindless wails of departing, maddened souls fade into something like white noise. Forget all that shit.

The walls are just as grey and dank. There’s a listlessness pouring through the cracks—a bitter contempt, a sorrow that reminds him wholeheartedly of his days spent roaming aimlessly through Grimmauld Place between terms. 

Sirius wonders how much he’d give to be back there now. 

Perhaps everything. 

Perhaps he already had.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


His shoulder jerks with a sickening pop and Sirius grits his teeth against a scream. Dirt and blood have long since matted his hair, always too long, Remus had said, cuts and bruises littering his skin in gruesome decoration. 

_ If only the girls could see you now.  _

The thought plagues him in James’ voice, a tenor so clear and precise that Sirius ignores the agony thrumming in his right shoulder, joint dislocated from its socket, and throws himself against the bars one more time. 

His skin continues to break and tear as he thrashes. A vicious snarl fills the air, and it’s only once black spots start to appear at the edge of his vision that he realises its coming from him. His throat is raw with it, chest vibrating like an angry wasp, all fading to nothing as he let the darkness consume him once more. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Regulus is the first to come. 

“What are you doing here? Why you?” Sirius’ voice is garbled, but his brother seems to understand him perfectly. He supposes, with his last shred of coherence, that’s what happens when you talk to the voices inside your own head.

Regulus folds himself onto the floor in the corner opposite, forearm rested on bended knee. It’s odd, the image; Sirius can’t imagine his well-to-do brother crouched in a place as dinghy as this one—but there’s still something submissive about the stance that makes his upper lip curl. 

When Regulus speaks what could be some minutes later, his tone is flat. “I always admired you, you know.” 

Sirius snorts, immediately regretting the action when bile burns his throat. “Now that’s bigheaded, even for me.”

“It’s the truth, big brother. As I believe you well know.” His brother is wearing that imperious smirk that always seemed too big for his face growing up, but still perfectly matched for the Black features he possessed. 

“What I believe,” Sirius wheezes, letting his head loll, “is that I’ve gone bat-shit fucking  _ mental _ !” His shout echoes off the walls, tendons straining, no one caring enough to pick it out among the other cries. 

“Always quite the joker.”

“Wrong—James is way funnier than me,” he breathes, throat stinging. 

For the first time in—is it days? Weeks? Months? Had time really continued its usual slog forward in the hour since his friend ceased to be? His crumpled body, discarded by the stairs, stepped over and ignored, twisted and contorted, eyes blank and staring in death—

Sirius banishes the image as quickly as it had come, refusing to be swept back to that night, to next see Lily—bright, vivacious Lily, brimming with wit and verve—

And Harry. Baby Harry, distressed and screaming like he knew, he knew what had happened, had seen—

Sirius begs for the darkness to come back, to drag him under once more. He doesn’t want to see any more, doesn’t want to think. 

Doesn’t want to see the tremor in Peter’s hand as he lifted his wand. 

Doesn’t want to hear the crack of explosive magic. Hear his own hysterical laugh of disbelief.

  
  


Doesn’t want to feel the lives drain from the air around him.

Fitfully he sleeps, but that pit of darkness never returns.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“It was your independence, that’s what I believe did it.” 

Sirius is staring up at the rocky ceiling, unseeing eyes following the  _ drip drip-drip drip  _ of the water falling from a crevice there.  _ Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.  _ Regulus is back in that same corner, the sleeves of his shirt folded up around his elbows in a way Sirius had never seen during life. Perhaps it’s just one more sign he’s losing his grip on reality.  _ Forty-one. Forty-two. _

“You were so unafraid, so sure. Mother and Father were furious anytime you so much as opened your mouth but you just did it anyway. I could never be that sure in my decisions—honestly, the amount of times you made me second guess myself...” Regulus continues his litany, unconcerned with Sirius’ lack of response. It’s nice, he supposes, in contrast to the other things he could be listening to.

“I think that must be why I wanted to prove myself so thoroughly. In becoming a Death Eater I finally had the chance to overpower your constant defiance. To make my allegiance clear.” 

“Bit of an overkill wouldn’t you say?” Sirius mutters, lips barely moving, chapped as they are, now tapping a nail against the cold stone floor in time with the drips. 

Regulus shrugs, unconcerned. “There was no way to go too far in my mind. Besides, Mother and Father were only more proud of me because of your behaviour. The further the gap became.”

“And was it worth it?” Sirius sits up suddenly, hollow eyes blazing. “Mum and Dad’s pride? Their approval? Was it really worth all the things you’ve done? All the things  _ he— _ ” He wishes the fight didn’t drain out of him so quickly, but his body is already curling in on itself. He lowers himself back down to the floor, seeking out the steady rhythm of drips once more. “You are dead, Reg. You’re dead.” 

His brother remains quiet.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“Do you really not think that getting a rise out of them was half the fun?” 

Sirius has taken to curling up on his side, arms folded around his empty, aching stomach. He’d shut his eyes but he daren’t, too afraid of what he sees behind closed lids. 

Regulus’ hair is longer than he remembers it ever being, a little unkempt, curls falling wildly to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. “Would you have been so… so… so  _ Gryffindor  _ if it hadn’t angered them as much?” 

It sounds like a curse, bouncing around his head with sharp, biting edges.

Would he? 

What would he be like if he’d chosen a different path to the one he took? If his dance with teenage rebellion hadn’t been so daring? At eleven, he couldn’t have known how much those incessant thoughts of  _ not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin  _ could affect his life. 

Would it have been worth it, to take the road laid out for him by generations of the family Black? There’s a chance he wouldn’t be in Azkaban right now. There’s a chance he would. 

To be powerful, and revered, and  _ feared  _ by magics and muggles alike, to stand on the side of oppression and stare down with an easy smile, knowing you were safe. 

Never running, never hiding. Never feeling the bone-deep pain, the barbed grief, the chasmic aching of losing everyone you ever loved. To know they’d be safe as long as you stayed on the wrong side of good. 

Maybe he  _ was _ too brave, too daring, too reckless. Too sure of his plan, too sure of others’ loyalty. If he weren’t so  _ Gryffindor _ … who would still be alive right now?

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Regulus doesn’t come back after that. His job must be done, Sirius thinks. His soul broken. 

The Dementors plague his door. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


_ Sirius.  _

_ … _

_ Sirius! _

He starts—not awake, for he very rarely sleeps—dirty fingernails scrabbling for purchase on the floor below. 

The voice, that voice—his half-dazed mind chases it, searching through the thick fog of misery as it leaps and bounds, always just out of reach. 

It’s a bright spot, somewhere in the distance. Somewhere far off. 

A bright spot with antlers. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


_ Dear Padfoot,  _

He pictures long, red hair falling over the writing desk by the window. 

_ Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favourite by far. _

A window positioned so that the deep orange of sunset fell through the panes just so. James had wanted to put an armchair there, but Lily had insisted. She never had to bargain for long.

_ One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, _

So like his father—all but the eyes, of course. Did they still look so much like Lily’s? Was his hair as wild as James’? Was he loved? 

_ You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). _

Someone with as horrible a taste in vases as his mother couldn’t be looking after his godson properly, Sirius was sure. 

What had become of the cat?

_ James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell — _

If time had ceased to exist for the rest of the world like it had for him, Sirius could still imagine them. Lily writing correspondence at her desk. James chasing Harry on his little broom, trying to pretend that a nice day spent at home, yet again, was his choice. The cat, hiding under the foot stool. 

_ also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. _

James would never get the chance to hand down such a precious heirloom. He’d been so excited by the prospect… 

If he’d had the cloak that night could he have hidden? Would they have had time to escape? 

What had Dumbledore  _ needed _ the cloak for so desperately that it was impossible for it to be given back? There had to have been signs the end was near, there had to have been. They all seem so fucking obvious now! 

Snide remarks about Remus keeping secrets. Constant, nagging questions about every little stupid bloody detail, making sure he was up on his facts so that he could tell. Tittering,  _ scratch scratch scratch  _ in his ear. Until, until,  _ until… _

“Think about it, James. No one would suspect Peter!” 

_ Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, _

Traitor. 

_ Lots of love, Lily. _

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


He feels as though he will never know happiness again. 

The distinction—where his own grief ends and the effect of the Dementors begins—is lost on him. Unimportant, even. 

Peter appears three moons later. The full moon, as it happens. 

Sirius’ despair burns white hot, crackling and spitting as it morphs into fire and rage, filling his chest with more feeling than he’s felt since the magical bonds were placed across his limbs that night after the attack. 

“You foul wretch!” Sirius sneers, something close to his dog-like snarl erupting from his mouth. “Fucking vermin! Utter scum!” Bubbling spit flies from between his clenched teeth, the force of his tempest turning him feral. More animated than he’s felt in an age.

Peter merely sits as Sirius continues to fling abuse his way. He blinks, beady eyes unwavering as they gaze back, mouth twitching and twittering like a rat snuffling for scraps. 

“Fucking… fuck— traitor… bastard…  _ traitor… _ ” Sirius breathes, lungs screaming in pain. His vision is blurring, knees digging heavily into the rocky floor as his weight deadens. “They loved you,” he manages before the ground rushes up to meet him. 

The cold pours into his bones as he lays, splayed uncomfortably with no energy left to curl into a warmer position. 

From the corner of his eye he can still make out Peter, simpering and squalid. Suddenly he jerks his gaze to the sky, seeking out the blinding light of the perfectly full moon, and howls. 

The sound is horrifying, piercing and cruel and inhuman. Sirius wishes he could cover his ears, but even if he could, knows it wouldn’t help any. 

The howl turns to a screech, turns to a buzz, explodes into a blinding flash, and all is quiet. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Sirius keeps track of the time via the moon after that. It appears, ever a constant, through the crack masquerading as a window in his wall, bright and unassuming. 

He wonders if she knows how much weight she holds. If, without her, the Marauders would have ceased to be. 

If human couldn’t become animal with the changing of the tide. 

Deep down he knows they would have all been the same, albeit a little more tame—or a little less wild.

His what ifs have turned stale by now. It has all happened how it happened. 

That he has to learn to accept. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


He’ll never get the chance to apologise. 

Sirius runs his hands over the protruding mounds of his ribs, tripping like water over rivulets, fingers over strings, eliciting nothing so pleasant as music. 

The moon is hiding behind a vast gathering of clouds tonight, but every so often there’s a break that reveals a moon with the barest sliver missing from the side; to the unpracticed eye she might look whole. Magnificent and full and deadly. But so many years spent calendar watching have taught Sirius to know better. 

He’ll be feeling the affects, for certain. The night before the full moon was always a difficult one. 

He hasn’t let himself think of Remus often. It could be for guilt—it could be for longing. For whatever reason, it’s easier not to. 

But nothing is easy anymore, not even breathing, and so, for one selfish moment, Sirius lets himself indulge and gives into the pain. 

He’s tried, several times, to pinpoint what it was that made him think that Remus could be the spy. Each time he hits a block, like his mind won’t explore any further, and most nights he’s thankful. But tonight he leans into it, shoulders the barrier to the side and barrels on through.

A secrecy had seemed to shroud his friend over those last few months. Missing Order meetings, coming back only to seem distant, jumpy, difficult to talk to. Quiet, solitary Remus. It all made  _ sense _ . Didn’t it? 

It wasn’t those things, not really. A thick, uncomfortable shame pours down the lining of his stomach as the thoughts continue to come, thick and fast now. 

Had Remus not been afflicted with lycanthropy, would he have been so quick to assume? To suspect he could be? To  _ listen _ to the seeds of doubt planted by slanderous mouths. It had felt logical at the time. The frantic search for the source of their plight seemed to press in from all sides every day. So quick was he to eschew all things associated with the Dark Arts, maybe, however subconsciously, he’d cast his friend out too. 

He was a hypocrite. The name Black clung to him like wet clothes after a storm, and still that gang of misfit boys had welcomed him without a second thought. A night in the snow, travelling to find a second home—finding, found. Accepted.

How glad Remus had been when they accepted his secret. What must the relief have been like, to know that he had friends despite his imperfections. 

How could he ever have thought—Remus?!

Gentle, solemn Remus. So concerned though he was with compensating for the damage his nature caused to the very earth itself. So worn, so disbelieving of his own innocence.

And now? What must Remus think of him now? Muggle murderer, Sirius Black. Betrayer of the Potter’s trust. Peter’s killer. Would Remus believe that version of events? 

He wouldn’t blame him, and yet still he hopes. 

Hopes for the chance to atone for his wrongdoings. To see his friend again. 

To hold him close, hand firm on the back of his neck, fingers gripping his patched jacket as they sought comfort in one another. Grieved for the people they’d lost, the lives they would never get back.

To say sorry. 

That it will never come to fruition weighs on him heavily, like the moon hangs in the sky.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


He’s been avoiding it until now. 

It’s been like an itch under his skin, easy enough to ignore but stubborn in its persistence. A base desire to revert to some form of protection, avoidance, protection. 

It won’t be the same. It won’t feel like it felt. 

Sirius remembers the day exactly. It sort of glitters and shifts around the edges in his mind, a sparkling silver memory ready for bottling. They’d all finally cracked it. 

A stag. A hound. A dirty, rotten rat. 

They stood before Remus like men at arms, a proud company ready to go to war. 

Sirius keeps his eyes closed as he wills his body to attention. He feels it, like pins and needles fluttering through this limbs, replaced by the thick shaggy warmth of fur. 

It’s quiet. Deafeningly, excruciatingly quiet. 

Try again tomorrow. A shiver rolls through him when he shifts back, curling further into himself on the floor.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The first time James visits, Sirius thinks he must be dying. 

His heart feels as though it’s trying to escape his battered chest, beating—no, pounding like the thundering chug of the Hogwarts Express down the tracks. It’s too much and not enough all at once, so Sirius settles for tugging at his hair and burying his face in his knees. 

“If you tug any harder you’ll go bald. Imagine that. Your best feature— _ poof!  _ Gone.” 

It is so  _ James _ , so completely his friend, that it startles a laugh out of him. The sound is not as hearty as it might’ve once been, but it keeps coming, building and building without showing signs of letting up. In fact, now that he’s started, Sirius isn’t sure he can stop, the sound beginning to verge on hysterical as it keeps coming and coming like it had that night...

James seems content to wait, regarding Sirius with that same kind of wary amusement he always expressed when confronted with a particularly hairbrained scheme of his, as if he’s testing his nerve. A tad smug too, like he’s pleased with himself for sending his friend batty just by appearing. 

Once his hysteria begins to wane Sirius catches his breath enough to pant, “You complete arsehole.”

“I try,” is James’ only response. 

Every inch of Sirius yearns to reach out and touch him. To pull him close and breathe him in, assure himself that he’s really here. 

But he knows he’s not—at least, he thinks he does. Not that far gone is his grip on reality—and any confirmation of the sort might be too much to handle. Teetering on the edge of sanity like this… he’s not sure he could take it. 

“I—” His throat catches, voice a whisper. He wants to say it, and say it with conviction. Sirius sucks in the deepest breath he can manage. “I’m so sorry, James.” 

James shudders, screwing up his face in an imitation of distaste. “You haven’t called me that in so long through it all, it sounds sort of wrong now.” His eyes are sparkling with amusement behind his glasses. One of the lenses is cracked, the frame slightly bent—the result of hitting the floor with no way to break the fall. 

“Prongs,” Sirius whispers, traitorous hand outstretched. James smiles sadly. “If I could go back, if it could be me instead…” 

“We never wanted that.” 

“But it would have been better! It would have been better for everyone if… Harry would still have his parents. Lily could still—” He wipes angrily at his face. 

“Harry will always have people who love him, who make sure he knows he was loved by us. You will make sure.” 

“You should hate me, why don’t you hate me? It was my stupid idea, my fault, why don’t you?!”

“Because, Padfoot, you know,” James begins, raising both eyebrows knowingly, “that I could never hate you. You were willing to die.”

“And I couldn’t even do that properly,” Sirius spits. “Supposed to be brave. Should have been a bloody Slytherin for all the good it did me.”

James chuckles. “Self-deprecation doesn’t become you, mate.” 

His amusement only serves to stoke Sirius’ anger. “You’re inside my head! You’re supposed to… supposed to agree with me at least! Tell me things went wrong because of my idiocy, that everyone is dead because of me. I thought I could cheat the Dark Arts, that they couldn’t touch me like they hadn’t before, and I was wrong! I was just wrong about everything.” 

James considers him steadily, unblinking in the darkness. It was a look he’d become accustomed to during their youth—at first the young Potter was unaware of the world outside his head, blundering and impulsive in his actions. As they got older the look appeared, a puzzling sort of expression, a furrow between his thick brows, one corner of his mouth downturned. Remus used to tease him that he’d hurt himself if he thought that hard, and Sirius would ruffle his hair to snap him out of it; Peter would add a snort. 

As James mellowed out during their final years at Hogwarts, so did his desire to understand things fully, to consider actions carefully. Lily’s influence, they all assumed, her intelligence rubbing off on him. Or just his attempts to keep up with her. 

“He’s just worried about doing the wrong thing,” Lily had whispered to Sirius at an Order meeting one evening, after they’d poked fun at James’ indecision, a frown clouding her features. “You can read every thought that crosses his eyes as he works through all the angles, trying to get the measure of a situation.” 

“No, Lily dear,” Sirius had countered nonchalantly, “ _ you  _ can read every thought in those dreamy eyes of his. The rest of us just think he’s barmy.” 

It was odd, at first, to see his carefree friend settle such a weight over his shoulders. But it had never dawned on them just how much they relied on James growing up so quickly. 

“If I’m a figment of your imagination—”

“You are.”

“ _ —if  _ I am then you have to take every word I’m saying as infallible. That’s just the rules.” 

Sirius stares blankly. “How’d you work that one out?” 

“Well, clearly, I am just all your deeply suppressed emotions neatly tied up in a very attractive, nay, devastatingly handsome package.” 

“Now I know you’re real, you arrogant prick.” 

James chuckles affably and the sound hurts. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“ _ What's-a matter you? Hey! Gotta no respect? _

_ What-a you t'ink you do, why you look-a so sad?” _

“Bloody hell, will you piss off and let me be in a mood in peace?” 

“I thought you liked my dulcet tones.”

“That song is worse than Dementor breath.”

“Lot of time to listen to the radio when you’re in hiding, turns out.” 

“Even this lot don’t deserve to listen to that bollocks. What’s wrong with a bit of good old fashioned Celestina Warbeck?” 

“Glad you mentioned her, mate! I do an excellent Celestina.” 

“Someone please fetch the professional torturers.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The pull of the Dementors is far less when Sirius is in dog form, he discovers. But James never comes when he isn’t his human self either. 

_ It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me.  _

This chant, this obsession draws him back from the precipice over and over. A declaration of innocence to keep the chill at bay, to stoke the hope that one day Wormtail would be discovered and justice would prevail. It’s not a happy thought, per se, but it’s something.

(The others, the fallen few, they’re unhappy. The the walls whisper of Peter’s betrayal of Voldemort. Sirius can’t stop himself hearing that revolting howl, imagining a boy with front teeth to big for his mouth and a snickering, grating laugh, coming face to face with the darkest power in the universe.

The hole where his heart used to be longs to hurt.) 

He needed James to tell him, assure him, remind him, that this was the truth. If James believed it, Sirius could too. 

“Ten years. Can’t believe you haven’t had at least seven failed escape attempts and one very near success by now.” 

“Biding my time, aren’t I?” Sirius no longer moves his lips to talk anymore. 

“Exactly what you used to say when old Sluggy used to ask why you hadn’t figured out how to brew even one successful potion yet.” 

“Ha,” he thinks dryly. “Ten years,” Sirius echoes after a moment, glancing towards the patch of sky he could see through the slit of a window, charting the position of the stars. “Harry…”

“He’s eleven,” James says, a thickness to his voice that’s never been there before. Sirius barely remembers it’s his own grief reflected back to him—it’s more sickening still, coming from his friend’s lips. 

“Do you think he remembers me?” Sirius wonders, imagining his godson looking at the same moon. “I was supposed to be the one to look after him.” 

“Maybe Lily’s sister has told him about you.” 

What she would say, if that were true, Sirius couldn’t imagine. What she wouldn’t say. He shudders. “Maybe.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“What about the time we flipped the Muggle police car during that early mission for the Order? Surely that’s near the top of the list.” 

James chuckles, raking a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Oh mate, that was classic! But wait—the treasure hunt of stink bombs we hid for Filch in fourth year has got to beat that.” 

Sirius sniggers into the floor, rolling into his stomach to staunch the sound. “Old codger had no idea he kept setting off the new ones on his way to find the others. A brilliant feat of imagination.”

“Classic tomfoolery,” James agrees. 

Sirius runs through his mental list again before they think of any more. All the things he wants to tell Harry if—when, if—he gets to see him, set the record straight. Stories of his father and their friends and his mum. Things to make him laugh.

“No, I think I know what comes at the top of the list,” Sirius says through and exhale, settling into the stones in a shadow of contentment. 

“Oh? What’s that?” 

“What an absolute pillock his dad made of himself when trying to get him mum to even so much as glance in his direction, let alone date him.” 

James glowers at him while Sirius makes a show of fussing with his hair. “What I wouldn’t give for a wand to hex you with right now.”

Where was James’ wand that night? Would it have given them some time to get out? If he—

Sirius feels his body shimmer and shift until he’s tucking his nose beneath his paws and letting the stale silence blanket him. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


It’s him. 

The filthy  _ rat _ , it’s him. 

The thin sheet of pilfered newspaper wrinkles easily even in Sirius’ weakened grip, a renewed fury feeding him strength. 

He’d never met Molly Weasley but he’d run into her brothers at the occasional Order meeting when they were all in the same place for more than a day. Good people. Honest men. 

And there she is with her family looking joyous and healed and unaware that they’re harbouring the vilest of traitors. 

It’s as if knowing there’s a flicker of a chance is enough. It dries the dampened kindling of resistance that had been fighting within Sirius from the moment his knees had collided with the stiff ground beneath him. It casts a spark, hoping,  _ hoping  _ it’ll catch. The rat in the picture scuttles.

The flame roars to life. 

Everything is over in an instant. He’s shifting and slipping his withered frame nimbly through the bars, weaving in and out of the endless corridors and pathways that make up Azkaban. The shouts and cries don’t touch his ears now, not like this. 

Nothing touches Sirius as he pads his way to the water's edge, salt spray washing his panting tongue and coating his fur. The swim won’t be an easy one but that barely registers before he’s thrown his body into the sharp water and begun to kick. 

Exhausted, wheezing, freezing Sirius pulls himself to shore on the other side, allowing one moment of rest and then he’s running, kicking up sand in his wake, only one thing in mind.

Harry. He’s got to see Harry. 

**Author's Note:**

> not at all in my lane but sometimes you just have to try something different *shrug emoji*


End file.
